On page 51 of Kafka's Letters to Milena, centered at the bottom of the page and scribbled in Smita's blue handwriting, are the words I was here.
This is the last page she read before she decided I needed to have this book. There was something about his writing that was very close to mine. A likeness in style and soul. From page one she had had it in her mind that one day I would write a book just like his. I was honoured but told her she should finish it first. I knew exactly how much her books meant to her. And at that point it had still felt like there was more than enough time.
But then I learned something else about Smita. For her, there was no greater gesture than giving someone your unfinished book. And for all the bitching she had done on books that had been lent out and never returned, I was especially touched and promised to read it first chance I got.
It was only late last night that she realized just how significant that last page was. The three of us had been sitting on the couch in her new apartment; a quiet house-warming of sorts. The place wasn't feeling so claustrophobic now. Only last week that same couch had been in J267, the two BHK the sisters had shared for the last four years. Things were moving fast now. Everything was changing, for all of us. Chapters were closing and new ones were waiting to be written. The sisters would be apart for the first time in nine years. The future loomed silently. We spoke of traveling then and I told them about one beautiful day in Rome nearly five years ago where I had left my father and wandered the streets alone. He had been too worried about having a destination to appreciate what was right there in front of him. Maybe he had been hurt when I told him I'd meet him back at the hotel. I felt a little guilty but it had to be done. Some things in life were better enjoyed alone.
When he left I found some perfect little square where people were just milling about enjoying their day. And I was snapping pics while some kindred stranger with her own camera eyed me from a distance. We kept tabs on each other and I hummed unwritten songs to myself. And every last Italian looked so beautiful then in the dying light. Men, women and children of all ages, shapes and sizes. So stylish and comfortable in their own skin. I fell in love with my people in that moment. And I promised myself I would end up back there someday.
When I finished the story Smita just looked at me and smiled. Something clicked, I felt. She didn't want to tell me what or why and said only that it had something to do with page 51 of that book. Something about a dream Kafka had described. She probably had it memorized and could have quoted it line for line. But she said nothing more. Except that I would see when I got there.
Now I had a proper destination. If not in life, than at least in the pages of this book. Maybe there was no better gift than that.
This is the last page she read before she decided I needed to have this book. There was something about his writing that was very close to mine. A likeness in style and soul. From page one she had had it in her mind that one day I would write a book just like his. I was honoured but told her she should finish it first. I knew exactly how much her books meant to her. And at that point it had still felt like there was more than enough time.
But then I learned something else about Smita. For her, there was no greater gesture than giving someone your unfinished book. And for all the bitching she had done on books that had been lent out and never returned, I was especially touched and promised to read it first chance I got.
It was only late last night that she realized just how significant that last page was. The three of us had been sitting on the couch in her new apartment; a quiet house-warming of sorts. The place wasn't feeling so claustrophobic now. Only last week that same couch had been in J267, the two BHK the sisters had shared for the last four years. Things were moving fast now. Everything was changing, for all of us. Chapters were closing and new ones were waiting to be written. The sisters would be apart for the first time in nine years. The future loomed silently. We spoke of traveling then and I told them about one beautiful day in Rome nearly five years ago where I had left my father and wandered the streets alone. He had been too worried about having a destination to appreciate what was right there in front of him. Maybe he had been hurt when I told him I'd meet him back at the hotel. I felt a little guilty but it had to be done. Some things in life were better enjoyed alone.
When he left I found some perfect little square where people were just milling about enjoying their day. And I was snapping pics while some kindred stranger with her own camera eyed me from a distance. We kept tabs on each other and I hummed unwritten songs to myself. And every last Italian looked so beautiful then in the dying light. Men, women and children of all ages, shapes and sizes. So stylish and comfortable in their own skin. I fell in love with my people in that moment. And I promised myself I would end up back there someday.
When I finished the story Smita just looked at me and smiled. Something clicked, I felt. She didn't want to tell me what or why and said only that it had something to do with page 51 of that book. Something about a dream Kafka had described. She probably had it memorized and could have quoted it line for line. But she said nothing more. Except that I would see when I got there.
Now I had a proper destination. If not in life, than at least in the pages of this book. Maybe there was no better gift than that.
